


Vulnerable in Memory

by dragonwriter24cmf



Series: Moments Without Masks [1]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Bonding, Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Old Wounds, Recovered Memories, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22134859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwriter24cmf/pseuds/dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Sitting on a park bench, Elizabeth told Reddington she remembered her father's death, the night of the fire. Sitting in a box that happens to be a safe-house, she contemplates telling Red what else she remembered...and what she thinks it means. But if she does, will Red be willing to confirm what she believes happened? Post 'Marvin Gerard'
Series: Moments Without Masks [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593217
Kudos: 9





	Vulnerable in Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to the creators of 'The Blacklist'

**Vulnerable in Memory**

Somehow, she isn’t surprised when he saves her. It seems to be his thing. He’s called himself her friend, her protector, her sin-eater. Raymond Reddington. Fugitive who turned himself in to open a line of communication to her. The man who turned her life upside down and inside out.

He confuses her. Sometimes she cares for him. Sometimes she believes him. Sometimes she hates him. Sometimes she loves him. Sometimes she doesn’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth. His expression is unreadable, and yet so rarely still. He tells outlandish stories that might or might not be true, he lies as easily as he breathes, calls her different names at the drop of a hat, spouts quotes from a veritable library of authors, and yet…

He blocked her memories and refused to tell her the truth. He sat with her adopted father, the only father she’s ever known in his last moments, and took the man’s last breath, denying her both answers and the chance to be there when he passed. He planted Tom, or Jacob as he’s asked to be called, into her life, and while it may not be his fault they fell in love, he was the reason they met, the reason she had to find out what her husband truly was. A spy. A covert operative. He’s gotten her involved in so many dangerous situations, and he always seems to have an angle. He’s stonewalled, or tried to stonewall, every attempt she’s made to get answers about her parents, who they were, how they died, and how they lived.

All of this, she could, should, and has hated him for.

He let himself be captured and tortured to save her life. He’s fought, bled, killed, lied, tortured and suffered for her. Even though he would never tell her why. He didn’t weep when he told her about Sam, about killing him, but he spoke with such love and silent grief that, looking back after her rage has faded, he might as well have. Looking back, remembering that conversation, she knows that, whatever might or might not be true, he did love the man she called father.

He spent over a week putting together a music box, so she could have her father’s lullaby, the nightmare conqueror, when she found out the truth about Tom. He held her and comforted her in a grip that might have been a father’s embrace. He showed a near paternal fury when she came to rescue him at the end of the auction. He bought her an apartment, even if she never used it. He stood in a burning hold of a sinking prison and helped her blow the boilers, when he could have escaped, and kept her safe from the other prisoners.

He was there when her memories were forced free, there when the world went to hell. He's accepted her hatred every time she’s lashed out at him. Been exasperated, yes. Refused to give up on her, absolutely. But he’s never denied her right to hate him, only to cut him off.

And yet, no matter how she’s reviled him, spit in his face and sneered at his offers and his gestures, no matter how much venom she’s cast in his face, how many cutting words and denials she’s slashed him with, tried to burn his heart with, he always comes to her rescue. Sometimes at the cost of his own safety.

All of this, she can’t help but love him for.

No matter how much she might fight it, she does love him, in that broken, savage way she loves Tom, despite the heartbreak and the betrayals of both. She loves him enough to come to his rescue when he’s in danger, to come for him in a black-site prison, to try and bid for him at the auction and rescue him after. Enough to be afraid when he’s shot and gasping out his life-blood in her arms, and to worry for him during his recovery. Loves him enough to threaten the Cabal with the Fulcrum, in spite of the risks.

And she trusts him, enough to place her life in his hands when she’s declared a traitor and a murderer and on the run.

Standing on the deck of a ship, listening to him tell the stories of the stars, she’s never seen him more vulnerable. More open. The man who confessed moments ago that he once wished to be a voyager on the open sea, sailing by the stars without a care in the world. 

The man who knew her mother, has pictures of her childhood, who first told her she was born in Moscow under the name Masha Rostanov. Who never said she looked like her mother, but didn’t have to with the way he caught his breath and lost his voice when she emerged from a stolen bathroom with blonde hair.

Sitting on a bus bench at the beginning of their complicated escape, she told him she knew why he’d blocked her memories. That she knew about her father, and that she remembered her father hurting her mother, and remembered shooting her father.

Standing under the stars and watching his face as he talks about the North Star, she thinks of how he talked about Odysseus and his long journey home. How he spoke of the North Star being the guide for sailors to find their way. And about how he called her  _ his _ North Star. His way home. Ironic that, when he’s been her guide to the truth this whole time. 

What home is he searching for? Or what absolution?

She listens to his words with half an ear, and wonders if she should tell him what else she remembers. He’s more vulnerable now than he’s ever been. Is it fair, is it right, that she wants more?

He turns, sees her standing in the night air. “You look cold.”

“A little.” She isn’t, not really, but for the thoughts in her mind, the idea forming, she thinks that inside might be best.

She’s not sure yet if she’ll go through with it, but if she does, she’s not cruel enough to do so without ensuring their privacy. His privacy. He is a private man. He even made her turn her back when they were changing in the van. Not that he didn’t turn his, but still...most men aren’t as careful with their appearance as he is, and if she’s right, she suspects she knows part of the reason.

“Well, come on. Back inside. Probably shouldn’t spend too much time outside anyway. Might attract attention.” As if he hasn’t paid off anyone who could possibly report them. He tilts his head back. “Still, it’s a lovely view.”

“It is.” She can agree. The stars overhead are breathtaking. It reminds her of Tom and his boat. If she’d gone with him, she’d have seen views like this every night. It would have been nice. Wonderful even. But she can’t say she regrets the company she has now.

She follows him inside, watches him shut the hatch. She still hasn’t made up her mind. But she has forgotten, temporarily, that he’s very good at reading her. And that in spite of the alcohol they’ve both consumed, his mind is in no way impaired. He’s careful about getting drunk. Careful to avoid it.

He waits for the door to close, then turns and tilts his head in that analytical way he has. “You’re thinking about something.”

“Yeah.” No point in denying it. She makes up her mind. If he pushes, she’ll push back. She’ll ask the question. After all, the worst he can do is refuse to confirm her suspicions.

He studies her face, reading the micro-expressions she’s sure she never learned to control. “What about? Tom? The situation? Your next move? Or, perhaps, our next move?”

“None of that.” She’s actually surprised his guesses are so far from the truth. He’s usually more accurate. “It’s about...something I remembered.”

“Oh?” His voice and expression are as still as ever, but she’s watching closely enough to see the subtle tension bleed into his posture.

Why not? They’re in a metal box in the middle of an ocean, and they’re going to be there for a while. She might as well. And she thinks that, no matter how he responds, she can handle it. God knows, this one thing is far from the most stressful element of her life, even if it’s important to her on a personal level.

She nods, keeps her eyes on his face. “I told you, the night my parents died...or, I thought they died, at least...” She has to concede that, because in this game of shadows and pawns and plans, she can’t be sure. Especially given that she’s working from the shrouded and fragmented memories of a child. “...there was a fire.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t say anything else.

“I used to think that my father carried me away before he died. Of course, now I know he didn’t. Because he’d already been shot. I know you were there, at some point that night...but it’s all so confused, even with what I think I remember...”

He nods. “Yes. I’ve admitted I was there.” Tension bleeds into his voice, and she knows he’s expecting another fight, another round of recriminations.

“You let me think you killed my parents.”

“And you know why I let you think that.” She knows he’s trying to distract her.

“I do.” She’s not going to let him get away with it. “It’s just...there was something else I think I remember now.”

“Oh?” His head tilts, his expression giving nothing away. Nonetheless, she thinks he’s a caught a bit off guard.

“Someone carried me out of that fire. And I think I know who. But to confirm that...” She takes a deep breath. “I need to see your back.”

He blinks, and she sees the shock in his eyes. It’s there and gone in an instant. Then he sighs, lowers his glass and puts his hands in the air before spinning on his heel. He stands there, back turned, for a moment and then turns back around, eyebrow raised.

She takes it as a challenge. He might be trying to throw her off, but that’s not going to work. “Not the back of your shirt. Or your vest.”

The challenge drops as if it was never there. It might be her imagination, it might be the lighting, but she thinks he goes a little pale. “Lizzy...”

“I know. But...I want...I have to know. Please.”

For a long moment, she thinks he might refuse. She knows he wants to. And she knows that if he does refuse, she’ll let it go. She’s asking him to be vulnerable, in a way even his confessions of childhood dreams have never made him. He’s made himself a monster for her, but now she’s asking for, looking for, something altogether different. Something they both know he’s not prepared to be, to offer her. 

Then he sighs. “I should have known it would come to this.” He closes his eyes, takes one deep breath, then opens them, and every sign of trepidation is smoothed away. “Are you sure?”

She knows what he’s asking. She’ll never really be able to hate him, or vilify him again if she knows. If what she thinks is in fact true. He’s giving her the chance at ignorance, to leave him as a monster that she can hate if she needs to. It doesn’t change her answer. “Yes.”

He breaths in again, then lifts his hands to the top button of his vest. He moves with precise, methodical movements, unhurried. There’s an edge of impatience in her mind that wants to call it stalling, but she doesn’t. He’s always been careful of his appearance. And she knows that his clothes, the fine suits and shirts and vests, are a form of armor for him. A part of his public persona, like long coats and fedoras. She’s asking him to take off the armor, to strip it away voluntarily. The least she can do is let him take his time. And it’s not like either of them is going anywhere soon.

The vest is unbuttoned, removed, and set aside. Next he unsnaps his cuffs. He looks at her, a silent question in his eyes, the silent warning of ‘last chance’ in his face. She doesn’t look away, doesn’t change her mind, keeps the thin frisson of uncertainty away from her expression. 

The buttons of the shirt are undone with slow, easy motions, revealing the thin cotton tee underneath. He never tucked in his shirt, a concession to the relatively relaxed atmosphere. It’s easy for him to swing it off his shoulders, to fold it and lay it over the chair next to his discarded vest.

That leaves the t-shirt. He touches the collar, then stills, looking at her, and for the first time the mask cracks to reveal the uncertainty in his eyes. “Lizzy...”

“I know.” She offers him a sad smile and a measure of compassion. This...if he follows through, it will change things between them, even if she’s wrong. And if she’s right, it will change even more. “Please.” She won’t demand. Not this.

After a moment, a slice of eternity, he gives a sharp nod. His other hand comes up, and he tugs the shirt up, free of his waistband and over his head, baring his torso to her gaze.

He has scars. Less than she might expect, but more than she thought. Reminders of misadventures. His right side has a red, raw looking wound, where not so long ago a bullet was dug out of his side, out of his lung. Less than a month ago, in fact. Less than a month ago, he was fighting for his life. Aside from that…

He’s oddly hairy, for a man who’s bald. Or at least, she thinks it’s odd. It’s not like she has a lot of data for comparison. He’s also fit, if a little stocky, but she doubts there’s much fat on his frame, in spite of his seemingly indulgent lifestyle. She already knows that he’s fast, and strong, for a man of his reported age, so she’s always suspected he keeps in shape, however he does it. Then again, he’s a busy man. His day to day life probably keeps him on the move.

He lets her look, then sets the shirt to the side, extends his hands, and turns. Her breath catches.

She remembered. Remembers. The man who rescued her had to walk through the fire. He wrapped her in his coat to keep her safe. Not completely safe, she burned a hand, but safer than she would have been.

The man, without his coat...he had gloves, and something over his face and head. But without his coat...it took her a long time to remember, but the fire touched him. Burned him. His back and shoulders, as he leaned over to carry her out safely.

She had her suspicions, but now, looking at Raymond’s back...and she has to call him that now, because she can’t think of him as the criminal Reddington or the CI ‘Red’ right now...she knows the truth.

His back and shoulders are covered in a swathe of scars. Old scars. Burn scars. Long healed, but she can’t imagine what receiving them was like. It must have been agony, worse than torture.

She steps forward before she can stop herself, reaches up one hand to touch the old, scarred roughness of the wounds. He tenses, but allows the touch. She can only imagine how much that costs him, to remain still, exposed like this, even if it’s just the two of them in this box miles out to sea. 

She has to say something. “It looks like it hurt.”

He exhales, slow and soft, his face turned away. “It did. A long time ago.”

She steps back, lets him turn, and doesn’t say anything when he grabs up his shirt and tugs it over his head, smoothing it down and tucking it in. “You saved me from the fire that night.”

He looks at her, something she can’t name in his eyes, then looks away again. “Yes. I did.”

“Tell me. Please.” Anything. She just wants to know...anything. She doesn’t want to make demands, not after what he’s given her, but she still wants answers. If he’s willing to give them.

He glances at her again, picks up his dress shirt and puts it on, every movement meticulous and careful. She doesn’t make any further requests. He’ll talk, or he won’t. He’ll tell her what she wants to know, or he’ll change the topic of discussion.

He finishes putting on his clothing, covering up, setting himself to rights. Then he picks up his drink, takes a sip. Then another, until the glass is empty and he can refill it. Then he sinks into a chair and gestures for her to do the same. He sits, staring into his glass for a while then, just before she gives up, he speaks.

“The intelligence game is a dangerous one. Most people think the danger is getting your cover blown, failing a mission, but the real danger...the real danger is that, eventually, you can learn too much. Too much about the other side, too much about your fellow operatives. The ones who are your friends, the ones who are supposed to be your enemies. That’s when agents run the risk of being turned. Well, that and when they decide they want out, as sometimes happens.”

He sighs again. “Katarina and I were opponents. She was good at what she did. So was I. I’m not going to tell you the details, but suffice it to say we became friendly enemies. Or friends with opposing philosophies. Among other things. And then she had a child, and wanted out. Not just from the game, but also from her marriage to a fellow operative, whose name I would prefer not to mention at this time.”

She doesn’t push. It doesn’t matter, and she can find out later. There will be records. Of nothing else, she’ll find a way to get a genetics test and see what results that gives her. Maybe something, maybe nothing, but worth a shot.

He sips his drink, keeps talking. She knows he’s editing details, but it doesn’t really matter to her. Not right now. “I...helped her. Helped her find a place, a cover. I thought, at the time, that the measures I took were sufficient. Until I received intelligence that suggested she was in danger, from her former associates. Including your birth father. Or the man I knew as your birth father.” He sips again. “The source was credible enough that I altered my plans of returning home to detour to your mother’s house. And when I got there...”

His shakes his head, knocks back the rest of his drink, refills it and sips again. She says nothing, watching the shadows of pain in his eyes. “When I arrived, I found a fire, a great deal of blood, what I assumed was your biological father’s dead body, and signs of a struggle. I went looking for you and your mother. I found you, and the gun, not her. Not there. The fire was spreading, and I made the choice to abandon my search and rescue you. Which...” He dips his head in her direction. “...I did. And yes, I was burned. Not only in your rescue, but when I was looking for her. I grabbed you, the rabbit you had, which you now know the alternative significance of, and the gun as evidence, and carried you away.”

“To Sam’s.”

He pauses, then nods. “Yes. He was a friend from my youth, and I trusted him more than anyone else. He didn’t know what I did, but he also didn’t ask questions when I showed up on his doorstep with second degree burns and you, nearly catatonic in my arms.”

“He helped you.”

“Yes. He took you in, at first only as a safeguard until I could find your mother, then permanently when I came to the conclusion that she had died. He tended my injuries, to the extent I let him. Later, he adopted you, and allowed me to take you to a therapist, to help with your nightmares, but also to suppress your memories of that night.”

Their eyes meet, and he sets his glass aside. “I know what you want to ask. I will tell you, as I have before. Your father died. That night. And the only man worthy of being  _ called _ your father died in a hospital room, in my arms, almost a year ago.”

She can’t argue with his assessment of Sam. “You said you put him out of his misery.”

“I did.” He studies her face. “And despite what you my believe, it wasn’t just to protect my secrets. I knew you would find answers sooner or later. It was, genuinely, to spare him the suffering of the final stages of cancer. And to spare you watching him go through that. It was also, still, one of the hardest things I have ever done, in a lifetime of difficult things.”

She believes him this time. The first time he said something like that, she was so full of grief and rage that she refused to believe him. But not now. “Was it...”

“It was as quick and painless as I could make it without alerting the hospital staff, or leaving signs of foul play that would have raised questions. And it was as gentle as I could be in such circumstances. And it was far easier than what he was going through.”

She believes him about that too. He is capable of cruelty beyond measure. But also mercy. “Do you still miss him?”

He holds her eyes, and for once, his own are unguarded. “Yes.”

“Me too.” She reaches for her abandoned glass, still half full, and lifts it. “To Sam.”

“To Sam.” He joins her toast, drinks with her.

They pass the rest of the night in silence, both lost in their thoughts. She doesn’t know what his are about, but she knows hers are full of men and monsters, heroes and villains. Fathers, and men who love like fathers and act like fathers and guard from shadows. And a man who walked through fire for her.

She may not know everything the future holds, or the past, but she knows one thing. No matter what happens, he will be there. Watching, waiting, guarding her. 

**Author's Note:**

> A might have been, for all those nights spent drifting out at sea.


End file.
